Hair (Apparent)

Kids are like apples. They don't fall far from the tree.

Unless the tree is planted at the top of a hill, in which case the apples will roll.

Unfortunately, my kids aren't rolling anywhere. I'm rooted in land as flat as Kansas, which explains why we're all able to provide such regular, blog-worthy material. I've actually been producing blog fodder for years. I just didn't bother to write about it until my children started emulating it. But truth be told, they come by their exploits honestly - and I have the collection of stories to prove it.

One of them came to mind last week when I saw my brunette neighbor gathering her mail. My brunette neighbor whom I've only ever known as a blond.

"It looks great!" I told her.

"Thanks. This is round three, though. I don't know what I was thinking."

I knew what she was thinking. She was thinking, I'm bored and broke, but this box of Clairol could be fun!

I totally get that. In fact, it was my college motto. My hair has hit just about every color in the rainbow, including an unfortunate run-in with orange. But my worst hair-dye-gone-wrong story isn't about my hair. It's about Callie's.

Callie was my beautiful, blue-eyed college roommate. And her crowning glory was her waist-length, virgin blond hair. Virgin, as in never dyed. And of course, as her hair-dying, maniac friend, I felt it my duty to add just a touch more blond what to what was already perfect hair.

I finally convinced her to let me work my magic over Spring Break of our senior year. We were staying at my parents' house, on our way to Florida for the week. After a quick Target run, I was all set to go: 2 bottles of blond for her and a bottle of chocolate brown for me.

Can you see where this is heading?

After applying one entire bottle of what I now realize was suspiciously dark-looking goo, I started in on the second bottle. Which looked a whole lot lighter than the first.

"Um... I think you need to get in the shower. NOW."

"Really? Already?" she asked. "I thought we were supposed to let it sit for 10 minutes."

"Uh, yeah. You know, just start washing. I have to make a phone call."

The phone call was to the Loreal customer service number listed on the back of the box. While Callie was busily shampooing, I hastily explained the situation to a guy named Ted: Chocolate brown dye applied to light blond hair.

"Well, s---," Ted replied.

"Really!?!  That's the best you can give me!?!" I screeched.

"What's going on?" called Callie.

"Nothing! Just keep washing!!"

In my panic, I bolted down the hallway in search another box with another customer service number on the back. One that wouldn't pass me off to an uncooperative man named Ted. Unfortunately, I didn't notice the drop of chocolate brown hair dye on the bottom of my sock until I'd tracked brown spots up and down the hallway of my parents' newly carpeted house.

Callie came around the corner as I was stripping off my socks and trying not to throw up.

"This looks awfully dark. Is it supposed to lighten as it dries?"

It cost $180 to have Callie's hair dyed back to its original color. (Although Callie swore it looked a touch lighter, and "isn't that what we were going for?") Since then, I've left all of my hair-dying to the professionals. Sure my hair might have some purple highlights once in awhile, but I pay someone to do it on purpose these days.

But my boxed-dye days might not be completely behind me. Ella told me today that she'd like to try painting her hair.

"I think it could be fun, Mommy."

Poor little apple. That kid ain't rolling nowhere.

8 Things I Learned While Taking My Children to See "Annie"

One of the things I most appreciate about my family are the gifts of experience that so many of them give my children at Christmas.  For example, this past Christmas my parents bought tickets for the kids to go see "The Fresh Beat Band" live in concert this spring. 

Not familiar with the Fresh Beat Band?  Well, the FBB is to my sheltered six- and seven-year old girls what Justin Bieber is to... well, I suppose less-sheltered six- and seven-year old girls.  In other words, they're a pretty big deal in my house.

Over the years, my husband has figured out how much I love these types of gifts, so he surprised the whole family this Christmas with tickets to see "Annie: The Musical."

"We're all going?" I asked.

"All six of us."

"Ty, too?"

"Sure!  I think it'll be good for him to have a cultural experience."

"Did you just say the words 'cultural experience' without wincing?"

In all seriousness, though, I was super proud of my man.  Having seen "Annie" at the historic Fox Theater himself as a child, he was really looking forward to today's matinee show.  In the end, we had a fabulous day together.  But I did learn several things while taking my children to see "Annie." 

Eight things, in fact - mostly because my mind prefers even numbers.  Just thought I'd share:

1.    Some children come with more than one volume, but not mine. 

They could have two, but only if you count "asleep."  I can't tell you how many times we reminded the children today to always, always whisper in the theater.  Apparently, whispering means speaking at the same volume, but making your voice sound a little hoarse.  As in: "MOMMY, I CAN'T SEE AROUND THAT MAN'S BIG HEAD.  CAN YOU MAKE HIM MOVE?!"

2.    They should let you know that alcohol is available at these events as you're
       walking in the door.

We decided to nip the whole snack battle in the bud by letting the children pick out one - and ONLY one - treat at the beginning of the show.  Our motto is, "You eat what you get and you don't pitch a fit."  I picked out a box a Rasinets, because I like to delude myself into thinking that something as healthy as a raisin surely cancels out the chocolate it's dipped in.  I was just diving into my box of chocolat-y goodness when I saw a lady walk by with a glass of wine.  By golly, they should have posted a sign somewhere.  I was stuck with my chosen treat, but it might have been a whole different show with a little "mommy juice" on hand.

3.    Sally Struthers' most recent weight loss attempts must be going as well as
       mine. 

Okay, I'm dating myself here because I'm assuming that everyone knows who Sally Struthers is.  She's probably known to the older generation as that cute blond with the baby-doll voice who starred in All in the Family.  To my generation, she's that overweight blond with the raspy baby-doll voice who shows up on infomercials selling fad diets.  And to the generation after me?  Well, I'm not talking to you...

Anyway, Sally Struthers got top billing in today's show as Annie's arch-nemesis, the infamous Miss Hannigan.  And from the looks of things, she's eaten a few too many boxes of Rasinets.  I'm going back to Weight Watchers first thing tomorrow right after Valentine's Day.


4.    I sense a kindred spirit in that mean Miss Hannigan.

Even if Miss Hannigan hadn't been looking a tad pudgier today, I still would've viewed her in a different light.  As the drunken head mistress of the miserable orphanage Annie hales from, Miss Hannigan is supposed to be the villan of the show.  But as she staggered around the stage today singing "Little Girls," I found myself feeling sorry for a woman in charge of SO. MANY. GIRLS.  I only have three and most days I feel like I'm "going to end up in the nut house with all the nuts." 

"And the squirrels." 

Maybe Miss Hannigan isn't a drunk.  Maybe the woman is just plain tired.

5.    Children will never ask the questions you expect them to ask.

My kids ask questions.  All day.  Every day.  Seriously, they don't ever stop.

So yes - DUH - they were going to ask questions during the show.  But I thought the questions might be about orphans.  Or poverty.  Or even the drunk (tired?) Miss Hannigan.

But, no.  My kids wanted to know what was in all of those packages under Daddy Warbucks' Christmas tree.  And who got to keep them after the show.  And if they can be the kids in the show next time.

6.    No matter how hard you work, your children will never quite look as cute in
       public as you know they can.

Those pictures of my kids in the sidebar?  That's as good as they get.  And thanks to Andrea, I have some pretty spectacular photographs to document just how cute they can be.  Lucky for me, because her camera doesn't necessarily capture my reality.  My girls started out the day in dresses, bows, tights, and patent-leather shoes. 

By the time we sat down in the theater, all that was left were the dresses.  The bows were in my purse, the tights were in my pocket, and the shoes were on the floor.

7.    If you're taking children to a musical production, buy the cheapest seats
       available and pray - don't pay - for an upgrade.

My husband loves to treat his family, but taking a family of six - four of whom may or may not pay attention to the show - gets expensive.  So while our noses certainly weren't bleeding, let's just say we were well-placed to make a hasty exit for the bathroom / water fountain / snack bar.  Which - if you have a lot of kids - makes great sense... unless you forgot the binoculars at home. 

I don't know how it happened, but despite their stripped-down, rag-tag appearance, my children managed to pull off "cute."  Five minutes into intermission, a woman walked up and handed me a stack of 2nd row tickets.  Let me tell you - when you're sitting in the second row of a theater watching "Annie," Miss Hannigan's fanny is larger, Annie's hair is curlier, and Daddy Warbucks' head is shinier than you can possibly imagine.  And you don't need the binoculars you forgot at home.  The children who were falling apart towards the end of Act I were mesmerized in Act II.  Thank You, God, for that!

8.    Just because the show is over doesn't mean the singing and dancing is done.

Apparently, "Annie" was a hit for the kids.  Well, the girls, anyway.  Ty was a little ticked that Sandy the dog only showed up twice during the whole performance.  But Evie has a whole new repertoire of songs to sing in the car, Ella has a new movie addiction, and Emily's learning how to tap dance. 

In high heels. 

On my hardwood floors. 

Oh, Annie.  I just have a feeling that you're going to be the gift that keeps on giving.

Howdy!

I'm not afraid to admit when I make a mistake.  I mean, we all make mistakes.

Buying that super-sized box of Oreos at Costco last week?  Mistake.

Weighing in at Weight Watchers three days later?  Also a mistake.

Of course, some mistakes are bigger than others.  Like adopting 2 adorable orange kittens.  Or volunteering to organize the class Valentine's Day party.  Or taking German in high school, instead of Spanish like everybody else.

That one really screwed me up, because after floundering through two miserable years in high school - and then cramming two semesters of college course work into three, "Ich still spreche kein Deutsch."  I was a pretty big disappointment to the Frau Professor who finally passed me out of pity.  Or sheer exhaustion.

Fortunately, my kids seem to have inherited their language proficiency from my husband's side of the family.  Their Nana is fluent in French and - according to Ella (who is in the throes of her "Parisian phase") - is taking her eldest granddaughter to France when the girl turns ten.  I really hope that's true, because I'm not above stowing myself away in Nana's suitcase.

Unfortunately for Nana, not all of my kids are interested in learning French.  Evie, for example, seems to have developed a passion for Spanish.  I suppose I could blame "Dora the Explorer" for Evie bursting into my room shouting "¡Buenos días, Mama!" every morning, but I prefer to think of her as a genius who understands America's bi-lingual future. 

The only problem is, between my ineptitude in all things language related and Nana's bias towards all things French, Evie has few fellow Spanish-speakers to interact with.  Several months ago, two women from a local maid service came over to help me get my house under control.  Evie came bounding in the door from school and screeched to a halt when she heard the women conversing in what can only be described as her love language.  She listened for a minute, then grinned and shouted "¡Hola! ¿Cómo estás?"

The ladies' eyes lit up and one bent down to rattle off a bunch of words I couldn't make out.  Evie hesitated a moment, then replied, "Um... Muy bien?  Um... Si?"  The lady smiled and Evie continued, "Uno?  Dos?  Tres?"  At that point, it became clear to even my uneducated mind that Evie wasn't so much conversing with the woman as she was pulling out every Spanish word she could remember.  The woman patted her head and winked at me, and Evie walked away with an even greater passion for Spanish. 

Of course, her twin sister is not to be outdone.  A few weeks ago, Ella was going on and on about the Eiffel Tower and Evie was going on and on about... well, whatever Dora's in to these days.  And Emily pipes in from the back seat, "I'm going to learn Texan!"

"Texan?  I don't know if I've heard anyone speak Texan before."

"Yes, you have," she replied.  "You know - Yee-haw!  Howdy!  Gittyup!  Ride 'em, cowboy!"

Ah yes, Texan.  The language of kings.

She's pretty serious about it, too.  Today she climbed in the car and asked, "Is it okay if I move to Texas before you die?  I was going to wait until after you were dead, but if I go when you're still alive then maybe you can come visit me.  You can even ride in an airplane and hold my babies."

Awesome.  She's already thinking of me as a grandmother.  Or dead.

She paused a moment to think.  "Are there pet stores in Texas?  Because I want to get a puppy.  And two kittens.  Cowgirls can have kittens, right?"

Apparently I can't get away from kittens.  Or discourage my daughters from pursuing the things they love. 

Even if what they love takes them away from their mommy.

That would be a mistake.

Oh Sure, I Can Laugh NOW

So I took a vote - very unofficial, and involving pretty much just my mom and two sisters - and we decided that the following post is one of our favorites.  Mainly because enough time has passed that we can all laugh about it now. 

At the time, not so much... 

But I wrote it very early on in my blogging "career" (a term I use very, VERY loosely), and the girls and I thought that some of you newer readers might get a kick out of the story.  And hey, if it makes you laugh, do me a favor and leave a comment letting me know!

Just Say No (7/15/08)

Sometimes I think I must look one of those characters on Bugs Bunny. I suppose I'm addressing a specific audience here, but if you're a Loony Tunes fan, you'll know what I'm talking about. I think salespeople look at me and see a giant "Sucker" where my head should be. That, or they see me hauling my four kids from one place to the next and think, "Here is a woman who needs my product! Look at that dull skin!" Or, "Look at her rough and uneven nails!" Or "She looks like a candidate for the latest in-home water filtration system!"

OK, maybe I'm not a sucker. I've only purchased one skin care system, three nail care sets (they were made out of products from the Dead Sea!), and - hooray for me - I do not currently own a $6,000 water filtration system (although now I drink my tap water with a certain level of informed concern). I do, however, possess what those in the home sales business call a "yes face." I can say this with confidence, since I have made two forays into the home sales business myself - once as a beauty consultant and once as a jeweler. (By the way, please call me if you are interested in purchasing a ten-year old make-up kit or $300 worth of discontinued jewelry.)

A "yes face" is that one person in the crowd who makes eye contact with, and smiles at a sales person - which is apparently something I do when I'm walking by the Dead Sea kiosk on my way to the Food Court. I also do this when I answer my front door, because I just can't say no to the earnest appeals of small children selling wrapping paper for choir, or high school kids selling magazines to pay for football camp. Or to the vacuum guy who is trying to win a week-long, all-expense paid trip for himself and one guest to New Orleans.

This latest seller showed up on my doorstep recently to offer a free carpet cleaning of any room in the house. It was 6:00 in the evening, Tyler had just walked in the door, the baby was still in his carseat, and the kids were starving. "Perfect," I said, as two of the girls wrestled over a toy behind me. "One of the twins took her diaper off during nap time and got poop on the floor. Won't you please come in?" Somehow he got a glimpse of my yes face, because he wasted no time lugging his enormous vacuum cleaner and a box of cleaning supplies into my living room.

As the girls battled over which episode of Clifford they wanted to watch, and Tyler tried to figure out how to boil a pot of water for spaghetti, Joe* set up his machine and jumped right into his spiel. Five minutes in, I could tell it was going to be a long spiel. This vacuum doesn't just suck dirt out of the carpet; it inflates pool floats, cleans lampshades, mattresses, and walls, shampoos carpet, and details your car. I asked Joe if it could fold laundry and babysit, but he was staring at Evie sitting on the chair behind me.

"Um, I think she just had an accident."

Sure enough, there was Evie, sitting in a puddle on my upholstered chair.

I tried to be nonchalant, but it took an effort to mask my horror. "Why don't we test out how good that machine really is, Joe?"

While he went to work on the puddle, I took Evie to the bathroom and changed her clothes. Being that we're in the midst of her potty training, I slipped her into a fresh set of panties and shorts and reminded her that "Pee-pee goes in the potty, not in your pants." Meanwhile, Joe had decided that his vacuum cleaner probably wasn't as effective as a good old-fashioned washing machine, so I came back, stripped the cover off the chair, and plopped Evie down. "Where were we?" I asked.

Just then, Emily strolled into the room sans panties and shorts. It seems that Evie had inspired a demonstration. But Emily, having properly completed her toilet duties, couldn't figure out how to put her pants back on. Not to be left out, Ella then pulled her pants off and ran into the bathroom.

"Um, I'll be right back," I said. "I think the girls need a little help getting their clothes back on."

While I was standing in the bathroom, trying my best to explain inappropriate nudity to my daughters, I heard Joe call from the living room. "Ma'am, I think she just had another accident!"

Sure enough, Evie - whose bladder can apparently more liquid than a small horse - had once again gone pee-pee on the chair. And on the ottoman. And on the hardwood floor. At this point, unable to hide my horror, I actually screamed. Not words - just one really loud, frustrated scream. Unfortunately, the noise woke up Ty, who had been dozing in the Pack 'n Play during the chaos of Joe's increasingly lengthy presentation. I sent Evie with Tyler to get cleaned up (again), and picked up Ty to comfort him. Of course, he was not to be outdone by his sisters, and immediately unloaded a better portion of his dinner bottle onto the rug.

"Do you think we can get that spot out, too?" I asked Joe, as two naked children streaked by.

"I can try," he replied.

While he went to work on the spots and Tyler and the kids ate dinner, I tried to push this now excruciatingly slow demonstration along. But Joe was not about to lose a sale. (And really, who could blame him at this point? He was still stuck with cleaning the girls' poop-stained floor.) He pulled out all the stops and did a side-by-side comparison of his vacuum to my newly-acquired (and very expensive) machine. Tyler just gave me "the look", and headed out for his tennis workout. Since we've been married for eight years, I recognized "the look" to mean: DO NOT SPEND ANY MONEY. I knew I was now set on a collision course with Joe's hard sell.

I have to give the man credit. He asked all the right questions, pushed all the right emotional buttons, and wheeled and dealed with his "non-negotiable" - but really negotiable - price. He kept reminding me of how much easier his machine would make my life. (Had he really been in my house for the last 2 hours???) I could hear my "no, thank you" getting fainter as he pushed harder. I knew that I was a desperate woman when I considered compromising my marriage, and handing him $1600 to leave. But once again, we were interrupted by my children.

The sound of breaking glass shattered any prospect Joe had of selling me a vacuum cleaner. As I shot up the stairs, I knew exactly what had happened - the heavy mirror over the girls' dresser had fallen off the wall and crashed to the floor. Even as I ran my sub-par vacuum cleaner over the mess of wood and glass, Joe packed up his box and headed for the door. (But not before he graciously helped me move the broken frame to the garage.) Call it gratitude, but I told him that my neighbor was in the market for a vacuum and sent him next door with renewed hope for a profitable night.

When Tyler came home from tennis, we had a brief chat about inviting sales people into our home. We've probably had this conversation before, but I'm pretty sure that this time it's going to stick. The next time someone shows up on my front porch with something to sell, my face is going to have "no" written all over it. Unless of course they have a machine that folds laundry and babysits.

Oh, the Pain

A few weeks ago, I was at the doctor's office getting my blood drawn for some lab work.  After draining two or three pints of my blood, the nurse slapped some tape over the wound.

Then she stabbed me in the arm.

"OW.  That hurt!  I mean, that really, REALLY hurt."

The nurse withdrew the ice pick she'd plunged into my arm.  "Sorry."

I don't think she was all that sorry, but I didn't say anything.  I'm not a sissy when it comes to needles.  Anyone who knows me knows of my extensive history with the medical community.  I walked back to the waiting room, contemplating my new found sympathy for our well-immunized children and trying not to swing my throbbing arm.

The shot was part of a test to examine my body's response to stress.  Ironic, to say the least.  But I had to wait 30 minutes for another blood draw, so I made myself comfortable and texted my husband something to the effect of "OMG - PAIN."

The next thing I remember is seeing shoes out of the corner of my eye as I lay face-down on the floor.

The shoes informed me that paramedics were on their way and not to move in case my neck was broken.

"Does your neck hurt?"

"No, but my face does.  Can I roll over?"

They carefully rolled me on my back, and put my legs in the air.  Ten minutes later, the paramedics still weren't there and my feet were numb from the lack of circulation.

"I can't feel my feet."

There was a flurry of activity as doctors and nurses rushed to carry out the CYA emergency plan.  "DON'T MOVE.  We're getting you a neck brace and the paramedics are bringing a board."

"Could we maybe just put my feet down?"

The paramedics finally arrived and taped my head down to a board, then heaved me on to a stretcher.

"Are you in any pain?"

"Just my face.  Do I really need to go to the ER?"

Evidently, I shouldn't have questioned procedure.  I also shouldn't have asked why they were loading me into an ambulance when the ER was directly across the parking lot.  After a lengthy .3 mile drive (which included turning the ambulance around), I was wheeled into the ER.  The paramedics signed me over to a nurse and left.  As did the nurse, who left my head taped securely to the stretcher.

"Hello?  Hello?  Is anyone there?  I think I need a bathroom."

Eventually, a doctor appeared.  "Does your neck hurt?"

"No, just my face."

"Oh good.  Your neck's not broken."  He took off the tape and rolled me onto a bed.

"What about my face?"

I guess he didn't hear me, because after glancing at my chart, he informed me that I'd passed out due to my fear of needles.

"But I'm not afraid of needles."

"Well, it seems you are.  Next time you get blood drawn, make sure you lay down."

He signed my discharge papers and headed off to impart more brilliant medical advice to the pregnant lady down the hall.  Two hours later, I was released to go home.  Tyler handed me my keys and some money for the parking garage.

"My face is killing me."

"Maybe you should take some Advil when you get home."

I was kind of bummed.  You'd think with all of the hoopla, I'd get something more than discharge papers and an Advil.  I thought I deserved something big after all the fuss.

So did the paramedics.

I got an ambulance bill for $772 today.

Ouch.

Stage Fright

I have a terrible case of stage fright that may require therapy.

Serious.  Therapy.

Not that I have a problem being in front of people.  Put me on a stage?  You'll need one of those Bugs Bunny hooks to drag me off.  Hand me a microphone?  You're going to need to put some serious Ultimate Fighter moves on me if you plan to shut me up.  Clearly, I'm not afraid of actually being on a stage.

It's my son who has me breaking into a cold sweat and popping the Pepto pills.

Last year, all four kids were together at the same pre-school, getting ready to perform in the same adorable Christmas program.  Granted, the Thanksgiving program they'd been in just a few weeks before wasn't a stellar success.  My Indian Princess did great and the two little Pilgrims were sweet, but Ty the Turkey stood up on the stage and acted like... well, a turkey.  But for some reason, I thought the Christmas program would be different.  All four kids were going to be on the stage together: a perfect, once-in-a-lifetime, Christmas photo op.

Mom and I started planning weeks before the actual program, sewing these adorable green Christmas jumpers for the girls and Rudolf-themed overalls for Ty.  I was convinced that a sanctuary full of parents would be watching my kids on the stage (in a sea of 400 ), commenting on the creative mother who helped coordinate such cuteness.

I was half right.

Ty spent the entire time lying on the bottom riser screaming  "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" at the top of his lungs and kicking at any teacher who came near him.

I spent the entire performance slumped down in my pew, crying.

People probably thought I was upset about Ty's performance.  But I was really crying because after the show, I had to take that screaming child home with me - for an entire Christmas break.

I thought Ty would do better in front of an audience this year.  He's much more amenable to school now that he's three, and he loves singing in the car.  And at the dinner table.  And in the bathtub.  So at Grandparent's Day last week, I assumed he'd be fine.

Granted, the morning didn't start off great.  He wanted to wear his Superman costume to school and wouldn't hear of taking it off.  I was in the middle of typing out a sign to pin to his cape - "I dressed myself this morning" - when he finally decided to change.  Still, we were late to school.  When I dropped him off in class, he clung to my leg and cried.  It did not bode well.

Sitting in the sanctuary, I tried to think of all the worst case scenarios and their subsequent solutions.  (Pretty much every solution consisted of me pointing my finger and asking, "Whose kid is that?")  Meanwhile, the director was working the audience to find out which grandparent had traveled the farthest for Grandparent's Day.  Michigan and Ohio were the clear winners.

As it turns out, I didn't need to worry about Ty's performance on the stage.  The minute he saw me, he hurled himself into my lap and refused to budge.  An audience full of grandparents enjoyed this:

Ty's grandmothers got this:

That's a fake smile, but at least I'm not crying.  All I could think was, "I'm just relieved nobody had to fly in from Michigan to see this."

I also had some Pepto in my tummy.

Where Fish Go to Die

Last December, a friend of mine bought the twins a fish for their birthday.  The girls were totally stoked and named their new friend Sally.  My husband, on the other hand, was less enthused and couldn't believe that my friend would buy our kids a pet without asking us first.

"She asked me a few weeks ago.  You know how much the girls love animals.  I told her it was a fantastic idea."

I am an idiot.

Sally was in our home roughly 4 hours before Ty found - and dumped - a year's worth of fish food into Sally's tank.  I'm not sure how much the little pink fish had eaten by the time I found her, but she wasn't really pink anymore and her stomach was completely distended.  She was still trying to choke down - or spit out - one last pellet.

It was obvious from the way Sally kept floating to the surface that she was going to die.  I scooped her into a plastic cup and cleaned her tank in preparation for the new fish I'd clearly be buying the next day.  Then I told the girls to say goodbye to Sally.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!  YOU CAN'T GET RID OF SALLY!  SHE'S FIIIIIINNNNNE!!!!"

After this convincing argument from my 5-year olds, I decided to dispose of the body after the kids went to sleep.  Of course, I forgot all about poor Sally once they were in bed and I was pouring my second glass of wine.

Lucky for Sally.

It turns out she survived the night's gluttonous orgy and managed to live for another 8 months before I found her once again floating at the top of her tank.  This time, I think she starved to death.  I'm pretty sure the twins stopped feeding her regularly after Month 4.

Sally's funeral was held the morning I found her, just before I sent the kids off to school.  The twins cried and said their goodbye's to Sally as I dropped her into the toilet.  Then, holding hands, they reached over and flushed the handle together.  Their teacher later showed me the journal pages they colored that morning: one showed a little pink fish floating at the top of her tank, while the other - also showing a pink fish - was scribbled over in black.

An art therapist I ain't, but my little girls were clearly grieving.  So I did what any (idiot) mother would do and bought them two more goldfish.

Lilly made it three days and Sally Two survived for four.  Emily shed a few tears over Lily, but Evie skipped Sally Two's funeral in favor of breakfast.  That weekend, however, we were back at PetSmart.  This time, the girls picked out a large, male beta.  He seemed healthy enough to me, living in that little plastic container, so we took him home.  Along the way, the girls argued over names.  They ruled out Sally, on account of him being a boy, and asked me for ideas.  I suggested Max, Alfred, or Red.

"He's not really red, Mommy," Emily explained.  "He's more reddish."

Reddish lasted about two weeks... I think.  I couldn't say for sure, because I thought he was dead at one point, but then noticed his gills fluttering.  The next day, he looked like he was trying to swim.  The day after that, he was definitely dead, but I left him floating there for a few extra days just in case, and then flushed him while the girls were at school.  It's been nearly a month, and they still haven't noticed he's gone.

Not that there won't be at least one more fish funeral in our future.  Ella - not to be left out when we bought Reddish - talked me into a goldfish named Sarah.  Sarah's hanging in there, but last night I noticed an inordinate amount of food floating in her tank.

"Ella, who fed Sarah so much food today?"

"Oh, I did, Mom.  I went ahead and fed her extra so she'd have something to eat for breakfast."

Ella will not grieve quietly.  I might need to plan something a bit more dramatic than the small, dignified funerals we've been having.  Does anyone know where I can hire mourners for a fish burial?

Maybe I'll Google it just in case.  Sarah's looking a little peaked today.